


Life is In Their Hands

by Lovely_Silhouette



Series: Lesbians and Fairies [1]
Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Books, F/F, Fae & Fairies, Feelings, Fem!Dante (Devil May Cry) - Freeform, Fem!Vergil (Devil May Cry), Gender or Sex Swap, Implied/Referenced Incest, Incest, Kinda, Lesbians, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:41:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26333536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lovely_Silhouette/pseuds/Lovely_Silhouette
Summary: Dante and Vergil are in the house’s library when Dante stumbles across a fictional novel about a court case. A discussion ensues about the nature of evidence, belief, and the differences between human and fairy-world morality.(This work is a one-shot set in the world of my newest brain child, a DMC/Fairy Folklore au affectionately titled the"Lesbians and Fairies AU", a Fem!DV au where magic is real and closer than it might seem, and always closer than one might like. I hope everyone enjoys this little snippet from their world!)
Relationships: Dante/Vergil (Devil May Cry)
Series: Lesbians and Fairies [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1913551
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15
Collections: Spardacest Server Create-a-thon Collection, Spardacest Server Fics and Art





	Life is In Their Hands

**Author's Note:**

> This story was made as a part of the Spardacest Server's first ever [ Create-a-thon!](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1aNaVKyGqIIfB1hIh4m5R85DUW5QTZboE3lOJPK644H8), specifically based off the prompt "Are you sure that's how it works?" So thank you to whoever made that prompt, I've had a lot of fun with it!

With how many books there are in the manor house’s library, so many of them dedicated to maths, philosophies, and sciences, mythologies, bestiaries and magics from ages long past, it’s a surprise to come across a book that proudly touts itself as a work of fiction.

It’s an old paper-back easily dated back 50 years, wedged between a leaflet-thin manual on how to properly use the pieces of a manticore in various crafts and a much thicker treatise on the proper wielding on a falchion from the 1700s. The cover is blue and stamped with dated images of men in dress-shirts sitting in the jury box as a young man stands at a witness stand out of the 40’s. The pages have faded to a dull yellow, and there are creases and signs of wear like it has been opened and poured over many times. In the upper-most corner is a stamp advertising novel as only 1 dollar without tax.

Curious, Dante takes it off the shelf and retreats to one of the loveseats Vergil keeps by the perpetually burning fireplace. She splays herself across it and wiggles until comfortable, the book resting on her chest. The light of the moon outside is bright. It adds a pale overlight that makes reading at this late hour easy on tired, sleepless eyes.

It’s a bit of a dry read, all things considered, and doesn't try something Dante has never heard of. It tries to be thought-provoking, a commentary on the attitudes of the time and how biases can lead people to taking important things at their face value. It reasonably succeeds, but only by throwing legal process out the window like so much dust. It’s cute, almost poetic, however, that such a thing only works in a fictional setting, where the moral is resounding and the theme is clear. It always says something sad when such clear-cut, happy endings, where everyone’s problems are reasonably resolved and people can become better than they were by shedding bitter, angry, resentful emotions like cocoons, only ever seem to occur on the big screen, or on a small page.

Just over 170 pages in, something firm and warm takes up her entire stomach behind the book. She almost misses it, too tired to react with more vigor than a hard blink of sore eyes and a quiet lifting of her book. Looks like Shadow’s chosen to be the size of a normal house cat when he’s come to bug her this time. How courteous of him. Dante’s finally getting to him, it seems. Bright red feline eyes stare back at her, glowing from within the backdrop of fur colored vanta black and absorbing the light of a moon still as radiant as it was hours previously. Dante scratches under his chin in greeting and is rewarded with him _not_ scratching her hand to hell.

When Dante first came here, the overwhelming vibrancy of this place, entrenched so firmly in the fae realm as it is, unsettled her. She’s used to it by now, if only by sheer overexposure. She feels it seeping into her sometimes. Sometimes she has to go back, has to walk among other humans, to remind herself of what she is, and what she is not.

“Looks like you were right, Shadow,” says a voice overhead. Vergil frowns at her, stern, from over the back of the loveseat. Her hair is messy like she just got out of bed. Dante doesn’t feel like picking her head up to greet her. “It’s almost 4 in the morning.”

I couldn’t sleep, it’s on the tip of her tongue to say, but that feels too honest for how things started off as. I can’t sleep when I don’t know myself or this world anymore. I don’t know how this works anymore. “And I’m about three-quarters done with this.”

“I wonder what has interested you so, then,” she returns, plucking the book out of her hands. Dante gives a token noisy protest that is only half-token. She was reading that, damn it. The look on Vergil’s face changes to one of contemplation as she takes in the cover.

“A classic,” she announces softly, fondly. “I admit that I am curious as to how you would interpret this tale, being a private investigator. Do you agree with the jury on their initial guilty verdict, or do you perhaps see his innocence?”

“I’ve seen conduct like this before in other trials,” Dante admits, rubbing her hand over her eyes, “with amateur, first-time juries. There have been times when I’ve been called to be a witness in a case turned criminal. I can tell you right now that this kind of conduct leads trials to becoming mistrials.”

Vergil quirks an eyebrow and leans over the back with a lazy slouch and an army sloppily thrown over it to brace herself, somehow still managing to be elegant and refined and so damn beautiful despite the late hour. Despite how Dante sometimes wishes she didn’t have to deal with these _”sisterly feelings”_ on top of everything else Vergil has upended in her life. “Is that so? You would think even the smallest details would be important in determining the defendant’s guilt.”

“Except the jurors’ conclusions are based in speculation, not fact,” Dante yawns. “The guy saying he’s got a similar knife to the murder weapon is not relevant to the case, and the other guy is making such a broad assumption by saying the witness wasn’t wearing her glasses on the night of the murder, without even _confirming_ with her! It’s so far beyond the range of reasonable doubt, it’s not even in the same ballpark. With this one judge I know, it’d even be enough to have someone suspect that the juror was allied with the defendant.”

“That part _did_ made me somewhat incredulous when I first read it,” Vergil nods, reaching down to give Shadow a brief scratch behind his ear. Dante can feel his purrs vibrating her entire torso with their force.

“And I’m not even _going_ into the last juror. The one who has a bad relationship with his kid? Yikes. Someone that obviously biased wouldn’t even be paneled in most courts of law if caught at the swearing-in portion nowadays.” Dante laughs and rubs her eyes again. “It’s a mess, really.”

Rubbing them does nothing to alleviate her aching eyes, so Dante gives up on that and sighs her weariness out. She really does need to get to sleep sometime tonight. Fear of the unknown has rarely stopped her from moving forward, Dante reminds herself. It’s not going to so much as slow her roll now. Not when she has allies, this time.

Dante opens her eyes, letting her limbs fall limply wherever they may. Above her, Vergil is giving the old book a peculiar look Dante can’t describe properly. Well, less a look, and more an expression that knows what it should be, but has forgotten what it takes to make the expression genuine, real-life; less a mask and more flesh and muscle. It’s a common problem, Dante is coming to realize as she spends more time here, in this place, with Vergil.

“The events as presented always made some sort of sense to me,” Vergil says quietly, lost in one thought or another. “Trials in the Fae Realm are rare due to most schemes having been planned for decades in advance of their execution. “What is infinite time even for if not for making elaborate games and strategies?” as was told to me once. But, when they do happen and someone was sloppy enough to be caught, oftentimes there is still little hard evidence left, or the evidence has been left intentionally to implicate another in the guilty party’s place.”

“Yeah, the “friendly neighbors” are just the right kind of bullshit, aren’t they?”

That makes pale pink lips quirk up at the corners. Just a quick expression, but just that one quick moment feels more real than the past several days. Something in Dante’s gut clenches, warningly tight and dangerously fond.

“It does feel that way sometimes, doesn’t it?” Vergil says, either ignoring or missing the dry _“sometimes?”_ Dante mouths back at her. “But, nonetheless, trials here rely heavily on common manners and adherence to the rigid social customs that dictate fae society. To intentionally violate the Rules,” she practically hears the capitalization, “is unthinkable, especially among Titania’s court, and is often more of an offense than the actual crime that was committed. But, get away with such a violation undetected, and one can be rendered untouchable by fae law.”

Upon saying that, whatever contemplative mood that took Vergil evaporates like so much mist, and now she’s staring at Dante again. Facing faint exasperation wouldn’t have been out of place for her admitted evasion of the question, nor would a pissy, huffy attitude if Vergil stopped feeling magnanimous about her present insomniac condition. What she sees, however, is something with far more weight, and something that would look like trepidation on anyone else. Why does Vergil care about her opinion on this little plot so much? “You haven’t answered my question. Do you believe the child is innocent or guilty of the crime he is being accused of?”

“All you’ve told me is that you’ve been in Fairy Land for way too long, Vergil,” Dante says with a grimace, stalling for a bit longer. She could have ignored the question completely if blue eyes didn’t turn dagger-sharp in her direction. Dante waves them off. “Fine, fine… As for the verdict... I don’t know.”

“No?”

“Well, speculative evidence has validity,” she says, making the effort to lazily wave her hand in the air as if to elucidate her point, “but only so long as it can be kept within the realm of reasonable doubt. And the actual hard evidence is stacked heavily against the kid. He might have done it, but I’ve seen enough cases go sideways by a single piece of uncovered evidence, both as a PI and working in the system in general, that I’m not one hundred percent sure one way or the other. So, I don’t know.”

Vergil turns her head away without a word. The silence that comes after that is heavy, weighted by the dissatisfaction and frustration Dante can practically taste bleeding off of her, but she doesn’t know what to say to make it stop. She doesn’t even know what she said to bring this mood on, or if it’s something she should be taking responsibility for at all. What did Vergil expect her to say? Yes? No?

Likely bored with all the conversation going on without his input, Shadow gets up from her stomach. He stretches in a sinuous arch, tiny claws flexing and tail twitching, yawning so widely Dante is almost surprised he doesn’t split himself in half. He’s done it before, being… whatever kind of creature he is. A graceful jump, one that causes his edges to blur and distort and make it look like he’s phasing across space and time, takes him up on the back of the loveseat. He presses his cheek against Vergil’s arm and she indulges him in a petting motion so absent-minded that it must be reflexive by now.

“Vergil?” Dante begins slowly. Going with her gut feeling rarely leads her astray.

Vergil hums in response but doesn’t turn back. Only one eye is visible to glance in her direction and that show she’s listening.

She gets an arm under her to push herself up into a sitting position. It puts them closer together, separated by inches rather than feet, but the distance feels like it may as well as tripled. She probably should just leave it alone, but Dante never was very good at keeping entirely to herself, even when she tried. Her gut’s telling her this is important. “What’s your verdict? What do you think about it?”

“I want to believe that he is innocent,” is the answer Vergil gives, after almost an entire minute of silence passes between them. She stares at Dante, practically scouring her face as if looking for something that she doesn’t seem to find. Whether this is a comfort to her or not is unknown; either way, she turns away again.

Dante answers with a low, uncertain hum that gets ignored. She _wants_ to believe the kid is innocent? She _guesses_ that checks out, though the thought sits oddly in her tired brain.

Vergil has never struck her as the type to root for the underdog. If anything, she’s often come across as very severe and exacting, and not always a human or even a good definition of fair. The few times they’ve spoken about the cases Dante tends to run, she seemed to judge those people based on the same criteria by which, Dante later learned, she judges herself. There’s really nothing Vergil has in common with this kid as far as she can see except for-

It’s probably a testament to how tired she is that Dante doesn’t put it together sooner. An overwhelming urge to smack herself upside the head nearly takes her, but she refrains. The last thing she needs is Vergil thinking she’s going crazy.

“It wasn’t your fault. You know that, right?” she says, with as much conviction as she can pack into the sentiment so as to keep it from becoming pitying.

“... Come,” Vergil commands softly, coming around the corner to grab her hands in a grip that is soft and warm, firm and inescapable. Her hands are always the softest parts of her that Dante gets to feel, callused and scarred as they are, confident but always never knowing where to hold on and where to let go.

Sensing the shift in the air, Shadow does another of his dizzying phase-jumps down onto the floor, his body expanding as if liquid darkness is being poured into him from some unknown source. He’s the size of a tiger before he hits the floor, with all the mass to match the sound of his heavy pawns slapping against hardwood.

Dante doesn’t fight them as they pull her up from the couch, though she does put up a fuss about the book. As a compromise, Vergil slips a bookmark where she says she left off. Then, she grabs her, wrapping her arms around her waist, smelling faintly of lavender and honeysuckle and something that pulls at half-there memories from long, long ago. Something familiar and comforting, but only existent on the tip of her tongue. Without a word, Shadow melts into the floor and then into their shadows. He spirits them along, down corridors and up stairs until they’re at the room Dante’s claimed as her own.

“Good night, sister,” Vergil murmurs into her messy hair, letting her go with obvious reluctance. She steps out of Dante’s space as if she would rather do anything but.

Dante’s heart clenches in her chest, and her gut does that thing again. “Good night.”


End file.
